In Which There Are Two Men
by Yesilian
Summary: "That," he said and paused, "is not how this was supposed to happen." Five times something almost happened and the one time it happened by accident. A 5 plus 1 in UST and fluff.
1. It will dry

AN:

I had a shit day and needed fluff to calm me down, so here you go.

This is laid out as a 5+1 of fluff and UST, but I haven't written everything yet, it will probably get updated when the mood strikes me. All chapters can be read on their own.

* * *

"Sherlock, can you help me, please?" John yelled from the kitchen. Reluctantly Sherlock went to see what it was he wanted. He _had _said please.

"What is it?" he asked moodily. John stood in front of the cupboard, hands on his hips and head tilted backwards.

"I can't reach that jar. Why'd you put it up there?" he pointed to a jar on top of the cupboard, far out of reach for him.

"Don't we have a ladder or something?" Sherlock looked around, swearing he had once seen such a thing. When he didn't find it immediately he went into the hallway to look in the chamber there.

"Sherlock, what are you..." John said dumbfounded, "Can't you just reach up there?"

"How will you learn to help yourself if I just do it anytime you need something from the top shelf?" Sherlock's voice was muffled and the sounds of him digging through boxes and junk could be heard.

"It's not here," he said at last, coming back into the kitchen and looking ruffled and confused. His eyes settled on John accusingly.

"I know. You broke it two years ago in some ill-advised experiment," he rolled his eyes. "We never replaced it."

"Why would we do that?" Sherlock was genuinely bemused. "We should have a ladder. You're too short to reach the top shelves!"

"Oi!" John interjected. "Ta very much. Now, could you just, _please_, hand me the damn jar!"

"This is a waste of my time." Sherlock shook his head.

"I've asked you five minutes ago, if you had simply done what I've asked of you, you could have been back lazing on the sofa ages ago."

"I'm not lazing, I'm thinking." Sherlock's pronunciation had taken the crisp tones he always used when he was annoyed. They were just entering an epic stare off when all of a sudden Sherlock's eyes started gleaming alarmingly.

"What are you," John started but was interrupted when Sherlock spun him around and grabbed him, his hands on his ribcage and went on to pick him up.

"What wait, Sherlock," John wiggled under his hands, "that tickles!" He jumped away, out of arms reach, already breathless from suppressed giggles.

"You can't just lift me," he said trying for a reprimanding tone that was disrupted by the barely concealed smile on his face.

"Why not?" Sherlock closed the new distance between them with a step, crowding John against the counter. John looked around him, wary of a new attack and searching for a weapon. His hand inched in the direction of the tap.

"I'm not a child, for one. It's humiliation, it is, you know," he said as his hand closed around the tap. Sherlock's eyes twitched to his fingers.

"You wouldn't," he threatened.

"Try me," John shot back, grinning fully now. It was a moment while their gazes were locked onto each other's, each waiting and trying to preëmpt whatever the other planned.

Sherlock was first. His hands shot out, tickling John's side and John erupted into loud shouts of laughter. He tried turning away under his grip and turned on the tap, splashing the cold water with his hands behind him, hoping he'd hit Sherlock. Judging by the sounds he made, John had succeeded. It wasn't enough, though, as Sherlock hadn't let go of him, brushing his fingers under his shirt now, viciously tickling his skin. John grabbed an empty glass in the sink and let it run full. He turned back around, fighting for a little space as Sherlock was practically pressed up against his back, and raised his hand with the glass over his head. Sherlock followed its path with his eyes and so John was able to pour the water directly into his face. Sherlock sputtered and stepped back, locking like a wet dog, eyes narrowed and brushing the water from his eyes. John tried to catch his breath, chest heaving with laughter.

Then Sherlock once more spun him around and grabbed him around the waist. The man was lightning fast, John had no chance as his feet left the ground and he was carried to the hall, kicking all the while and clawing at Sherlock's hands around his middle.

"Let me down!" he demanded.

"Never!" Sherlock said loudly. He opened the bathroom door and John's eyes went wide. His back was already uncomfortably damp where it was pressed against Sherlock's wet front, but this was something else.

"No no no, Sherlock, no, please, no," he said alarmed but it was to no avail. Sherlock let him down but kept a firm grip on his wrist and with his free hand he turned on the tap in the shower and in a flash pointed the shower head at John's face. He was hit with litres of water and dripping wet almost immediately. The water was icy cold. Sherlock let go of him and worse, started laughing, all the time still pointing the shower head at him where he was trying to shield his head with crossed arms.

"I hate you!" John shouted as he threw himself at Sherlock and started fighting for the shower head. Sherlock was taller, but John tugged at the hose. The water went everywhere, Sherlock was just as wet as John after a minute. It was getting slippery on the tiles and they had to be careful not to lose their balance during their fight and so clung to each other for balance which was very counter productive as all it meant was that they were so close that whoever had control over the nozzle to point it at the other, he was getting just as much water.

"John, stop, please" Sherlock shouted breathlessly after some minutes. John was reluctant to do so, he didn't trust Sherlock to stop when he did. But he let go and turned off the water and then blocked the path to the tap with his body. He looked at Sherlock, really looked at him for the first time since they'd started. He was dripping wet, his hair flat on his head and his cheeks and hands rosy with cold. John bet he looked the same. For a moment longer they stood breathing heavily, Sherlock's arms still raised where he held the shower head out of John's reach. Then, as if on cue, the men started laughing at the same time, deep belly laughs. Sherlock sat down on the toilet and John, figuring he couldn't get any more soaked, sunk down against the wall to sit on the wet ground where the water stood a centimetre deep.

"Shit," John wheezed. "You're cleaning that up." His eyes went huge. "The kitchen!" he gasped and struggled to his feet to sprint back. The water was still running in the sink, but it hadn't overflown, thankfully. He turned it off and leaned over the counter to catch his breath. How could he be this breathless, it was just a little wrestling?

Behind him he heard Sherlock's wet footsteps.

"I warn you," he told him before turning around to look at the man. He looked innocuously enough, which, knowing him, was not a good sign.

"What are you planning?" he asked warily.

"Nothing," Sherlock smirked. He went over to John and demonstratively got onto the heels of his feet to, finally, fetch the jar John had wanted all along. He handed it to him. "There you go." His eyes were still twinkling mischievously.

"Oh, thanks, the thing I've asked you _ten minutes ago_!" But John's heart wasn't in the chiding. Sherlock leaned forward and brushed the dripping fringe out of John's face. He let his hand lie over his ear as the said, "You should get out of those clothes, John. You'll _freeze_," before he stepped out of his personal space. He spun around _glacially _and John couldn't help but feel it was for his benefit as he wasn't able to reign his eyes in that wandered over Sherlock's body where his wet clothes clung to him tightly like a second skin. He shook his head and forced it upwards, looking anywhere but at the man's butt.

"Where are you going?" he yelled after him.

"Bed."

"What about this mess?" Sherlock stopped and looked over his shoulder at him.

"It's _water_, John. It will dry." There was another sparkle in his eyes, or maybe John only imagined it, but there was something before Sherlock continued, "I must get rid of these clothes and warm up in my bed. Naked." And he winked at him before turning around. _Winked_. Sherlock had winked at him only once before. And he wasn't talking about being naked then, and already it had been immensely seductive, but now?

"I suggest you do the same. Wouldn't want you to catch a cold, would we?" And then Sherlock was gone, into his room and for the love of him, John couldn't hear the door latch.


	2. Saved by the bell

When John opened the door to the bathroom he saw that the door to Sherlock's room was open, too. Curious, he walked through to see what his flatmate was up to. He found him in his room, dressed in a three-piece suit of fine materials that looked very nice on his slim form and that John had never seen him wear. Now that he thought about it, he'd only ever seen Sherlock in a three-piece once before. It suited him.

"You look nice," John said leaning in the doorway. Sherlock glanced at him through the mirror that he was facing. He looked a bit miserable as he was fiddling with his cuffs. His hair was sleeked back out of his face and lay in pleasant curls on his head. His shoes were extra shiny.

"Thanks," there was sarcasm in Sherlock's tone though why John didn't know. He quirked an eyebrow inquiringly. Sherlock answered with an eye roll and dropped his gaze to look at his cuffs again. His usually so deft hands couldn't seem to close them.

"You need help?" John asked and was already walking towards him without waiting for a reply.

"No," Sherlock said and John took his wrist anyway.

"Those don't have buttons," he observed squinting down at Sherlock's clothed wrist in his hands.

"Well observed, John, very well," Sherlock said impatiently with just a hint of petulance that John decided to pick up on. He swept his eyes over his flatmate from head to toe.

"Mycroft's making you go," he said. Sherlock looked annoyed, at Mycroft for forcing him and at John for being _so obvious _that even John could see it. "Where?" John asked ignoring the scathing in Sherlock's eyes. He turned his torso around to look for the cufflinks that must be somewhere around. He found them on the bed and went to fetch them.

"Dinner. It's an ... annual thing," Sherlock explained reluctantly. John's eyes went up to study Sherlock's and it was one of those times when Sherlock had to force himself to withstand the scrutiny when really he wanted to avert his eyes. John was the only person in the world, well maybe Mycroft, sometimes, too, who made him feel like maybe that was what people felt like when he, Sherlock, scanned them. It was uncomfortable, like he was an open book to him. John let it pass and started putting on the cufflinks.

He folded the overlong cuff and Sherlock tried to hide his surprise, but John was doing an expert job of it, folding it neatly at the exact line and aligning the sides just right, as if he had done this a hundred times before. Even though Sherlock knew that all John's shirts had buttons at the cuffs. He doubted John had ever worn cufflinks.

But John just secured the cufflinks and went to work on his other wrist. The men stood in front of each other with their heads bowed and their eyes fixed on Sherlock's wrist as if it was the most exciting thing in the world. For John, that was where his eyes were supposed to be. But Sherlock didn't trust himself to look anywhere else. Secretly he breathed in John's smell. John smelled warm and of tea, his jumper smoky from the fire he had lit in the fireplace some time earlier. There was a faint hint of sweat underlying those scents, trapped under the multitude of layers of cotton and sheep's wool. They all added up to a smell Sherlock could use to pick out John in a line-up of a hundred men blindly.

But then there were the other ingredients to his scent, the ones that Sherlock had put there over the course of their friendship subtly.

There was the aftershave Sherlock had given him once and that John had bought ever since. The soap Sherlock insisted on buying even though John claimed it was too expensive and moreover, way too fruity for his comfort but he used either way because having two soaps on the bathroom sink would be silly. An almost visceral hint of the formaldehyde Sherlock used for the body parts in his experiments that clung to the very hair on John's head. And covering it all was the slight odour of mould and wood and dust that was their flat.

John's scent was a compound of them both and their home and Sherlock didn't doubt for a second that if he were able to smell himself he'd find the same components in his own. He took a not so subtle breath and it stirred the hair on John's head.

"Are you smelling me?" his voice sounded amused and that really was just John, Sherlock thought. When everybody else would have at best been confused and at worst angry, John was amused. Sherlock smiled and it sat easy on his face.

"You're buttoning my cuffs even though I'm perfectly capable of doing so myself," he said instead of an excuse. They locked eyes with less than a foot of distance between their faces.

"Fair enough," John conceded and let his wrist go but didn't step away now that he was finished. It was one of those moments that could be the tipping point of their relationship, when neither men could tear away his eyes and both prayed that something would happen to disturb the moment, a phone chiming or an impromptu drugs bust maybe, and when both men prayed that, for once, they'd be left alone and that one of them could be brave.

The attraction that pulled one to the other compulsion-like had been there from the day they met and was accompanied by love later on. But they weren't _in love_ with each other. Just. All it would take was one kiss to change that, a fact both men were consciously aware of and a possibility they took into consideration seriously.

Sherlock felt the pull now. They were standing close, their bodies almost touching and drawing minutely closer by the minute. Sherlock's hands were itching to take John's wrist, to feel whether his blood was hammering through his veins at the same speed it did through Sherlock's. He bowed his head, breaking the eye contact and resolutely did not look at John's lips which John's tongue was wetting that moment. Instead he gazed at his shoulder with his mouth just in his peripheral view and took calming breath after calming breath. No phones were ringing this time.

"When d'you have to leave?" John whispered and the intimacy that enfolded them in the open room increased tenfold with his tone. Sherlock managed a tiny shake of the head.

"Mycroft will pick me up any moment," he said just as quietly. He could feel John's eyes boring a hole into the side of his head and his breath on his cheek and didn't dare meet his eyes again. They'd be blown wide, he knew. His fingers prickled worse. Sherlock stretched one out and it brushed the soft skin on the inside of John's wrist, eliciting a barely audible gasp from him. Their doorbell rang.

"Saved by the bell," John murmured. The spell was broken and he took a step backwards. The men felt they could look at each other again. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards and he nodded, once, at John.

"Thanks for the help with those," he raised his right wrist indicating the cuff.

"You're welcome," John said good-naturedly. Their bell rang again. Sherlock rolled his eyes in impatience.

"Yes, yes, I'm coming," he yelled the last word and walked from the room in long strides.

"Have a good evening," John shouted after him, maybe a little teasingly. Sherlock grunted, conveying all the doubt he had of that happening.


	3. Can't Help Falling In Love

When Sherlock was in between cases and boredom threatened to make life hell in 221B Baker Street, John had found encouraging him to learn a new skill could take the edge off. Often enough it had resulted in a new, albeit fleeting, obsession with all the manic energy it brought with it. But still, it was better than having a lethargic, depressed man-child in the flat that John had to alternately either ignore for hours or console.

This month's exercise was to learn to dance. It had somewhat shocked John when he found out that Sherlock couldn't dance. He usually was the picture of aristocracy and privileged education and John was sure dancing was part of that just as much as being fluent in the more important European languages. And while Sherlock spoke French and German like a native, and a handful of other languages better than John could ever realistically dream to be able to himself, he wasn't capable of doing the simplest waltz. After a few days of gentle mocking from John Sherlock had enrolled in two different courses and after a week, when he didn't catch on as fast as he had anticipated, had engaged the services of a private teacher, as well, so that he had been dancing five times a week for the last three. Surprisingly, it hadn't helped. If anything Sherlock was getting even worse because he had become too stiff, too withdrawn and too petulant. John found that amusing, of course only when he was alone. Seeing Sherlock that ungainly and clumsy, it was a sight to behold and very often he longed for a camera to film him trying.

John wasn't there for every lesson because Sherlock hated having him see him. But once or twice a week John came to pick him up and observed the last ten minutes and chatted with some of the other pupils while his flatmate angrily ignored him. Shockingly, Sherlock wasn't well liked by the other people, but they all liked John and he had become something of a mascot for their class.

It was one evening when John was talking to the instructor. He asked the woman what she thought Sherlock's problem was and the answer was highly amusing.

"He just isn't, shall we say, very graceful," she explained carefully and carried on, misinterpreting John's delightful grin, "I often see that with men his height. They don't know how to move all those long limbs." While that might certainly be true for many others, it couldn't be farther from the truth for Sherlock, who usually was grace personified.

"He retracts more and more," she confided, "He's just so stiff. Every time I try to get him to relax, it's even worse. He tries, I can tell, but he has a hard time to fall into step." Here John couldn't contain his laughter any longer. The instructor looked at him quizzically. "What's so funny?" she asked. John shook his head.

"Nothing, nothing. Erm, he actually takes this very seriously, it's very serious to him, he even has private lessons to to improve," he told her. She contemplated it for a moment.

"Maybe dancing is just not for him," she mused. "It's as if he can't _feel_ the music." John laughed even more and the instructor became irritated as was Sherlock, who had tried to ignore John's presence and his bothersome chit chat with his teacher, but found it increasingly difficult when he heard his continued laughter, laughter that came from deep within and that somebody else was provoking from him. He couldn't focus on counting his steps any more and gave up for the night. Sherlock went over to where John stood.

"John," he said sounding angry and a little weary, "Let's go home." He took his elbow in hand and started walking to the dressing rooms, standing so close that their shoulders brushed. Sherlock was self-aware enough to know he was being so close on purpose, in an animal attempt to sign a non-verbal message to the instructor that John was off-limits, even though he was annoying himself with his unnecessary and inexplicable jealousy. But John stood his ground. He looked at Sherlock with fondness and something melted in Sherlock when he understood that John had neither flirted with the woman nor (and that had been his worst fear) laughed at his dancing.

"Wait, before we leave," he carefully pulled his elbow out of Sherlock's grip and instead extended his hand for him in invitation. He wiggled his eyebrows in mischief. "Could I have this dance?"

"You can dance?" Sherlock asked a little too contemptuously but John was unfazed by it.

"Of course," he offered without expounding on the when and where. He beckoned with his fingers in mock impatience. Sherlock studied him in tired exasperation until he let his shoulders fall down and gave in.

"Okay," he said resigned and took John's hand. John squeezed his fingers reassuringly and allowed himself to be led out onto the dance floor among the other couples. The way Sherlock positioned himself broke John's heart a little. As if he had resigned himself to his fate, shoulders slumped and his gaze steady on the ground.

"I'm not very good," he told John very quietly.

"Hey, we don't have to if you don't want to," John leaned in, trying to calm him with physical proximity, a measure that so often worked. Yet Sherlock only shook his head and glanced up at John.

"No," he tried a smile that didn't really work, "I _want_ to." And then he shook his shoulders, straightened up and took up the traditional waltz posture. Sherlock led and John let him. He placed his left hand on Sherlock's shoulder while Sherlock put his right hand over his shoulder blade and their other hands clasped above shoulder's height. Sherlock started to dance.

It took John two bars to notice every thing that was wrong with his dancing. It was apparent that he was counting the steps, his eyes were glued to his feet and he tried way to hard to perfectly execute the steps and even tried a turn that failed miserably. John felt him tense under his hands and saw his face adopt a tight grimace. He stopped.

"Not like this," he said softly when Sherlock looked up surprised. He hadn't even noticed that his eyes had shifted back to his feet again. "Wait a second." The song that was playing ended and a new one started. Soft guitar music started filling the air in a familiar melody. John smiled.

"Do you know this song?" he asked. Sherlock nodded.

"Of course," he said harshly. John squeezed his hand hard in reprimand, he didn't particularly care for his tone.

"Good," he said, "Then listen. You know this, you know the flow. Listen to the beat, take it in." He tapped the beat into Sherlock's shoulder with his finger and could feel him relax into the touch. After a couple of more bars Sherlock tapped it along with him onto his shoulder blade and offered a small, almost relaxed smile.

"Great," John said, "Are you ready?" Sherlock nodded and waited another bar before he fell into step. Already it was much better, at least his steps where timed to the music. But his eyes where still on his feet. John took his hand from his shoulder and, with his index finger, tipped Sherlock's chin up until their eyes met.

"Look at me," he whispered, "Look me in the eye, don't look anywhere else. You got this," he told him. Sherlock complied almost shyly but he did as he was told, his eyes never leaving John's for a second. It was easy.

After a few moments he attempted a turn and it worked. Gracefully. John beamed at him.

"See?" he said, "I knew you could do it." Their strides were the perfect length and they worked in a turn every other bar.

"Work your knees," John instructed after a couple of more turns. He could feel the tension fall off his partner already.

"I'll spin out in two," John said after almost a minute of swirling around the floor. Sherlock nodded and prepared for it. John let go off his shoulder and spun to the side, their hands still clasped between them and Sherlock stayed true to his words as his eyes never left John's even when they were side to side with six feet of air between them. It was so easy to spin back together, in time, and his hand once more found its place on John's back even if it was now over the small of his back instead of on his shoulder blade. John gave him another smile. It was not the classic pose, but it was a comfortable one.

"Again in five?" he asked and got a smile in reply. When they came back together after the next spin they were pressed against each other from groin to chest where John had to lean back to keep eye contact. By now Sherlock was smiling down at him and his expression had changed so much. He was relaxed and his eyes fixed on John's instead of on his feet. They danced together so easily, rounded the whole room and forgot the people around them, who had stopped to watch the graceful pair on the floor, dumbfounded by Sherlock's stellar progress. None of that registered in John or Sherlock's heads. They were alone.

At last, the song ended and they came to a stop. John slid his hand over Sherlock's shoulder until his fingers were curled around the nape of his neck and he pressed his fingertips into the tendons there.

"You're marvellous," he whispered. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Sherlock's.

"You are," the other man whispered back and gave in to the pull of those dark blue eyes that had taught him how to dance and he leaned down, losing the eye contact when his eyelids fluttered shut. Applause roused him from the reverie before he could close the distance between their lips, brought him and John back to the reality of a dance room full of people gathered at the edges that were watching them. John blushed and leaned his cheek against Sherlock's collarbone, but smiled at them. They lowered their hands to their sides, still clasped, as Sherlock tightened his grip around his waist as if protectively. After a couple of seconds John stepped away.

"Yes, yes, thank you," he said sheepishly as Sherlock walked from the room in the direction of the dressing rooms. John followed, but stopped when he passed the instructor.

"Erm, he's actually a master violinist. So, that stuff about him not feeling the music?" he raised an eyebrow, "That's rubbish. Utter rubbish." Suffice it to say, Sherlock didn't return. He had to admit to himself that he would never be a dancer. But that was all right, because it was only fun when John was his partner anyway.

* * *

AN:

The song John and Sherlock danced to was _Can't Help Falling in Love_ (thus the title of this chapter). I chose the version by Michael Bublé, here it is on youtube com / watch?v=R6cdOeUWOEA . I had a hard time finding a well-known, (more-or-less) contemporary waltz. Oh, and I can't dance. I've watched some instruction videos on the English waltz on youtube. That's quite interesting, actually.


	4. Happy Birthday

John cursed his work. Cursed it! He ran down the street to their flat and almost skidded on the sleet. That would've been just perfect, breaking his neck when he already was too late. Sherlock would have a field day off it! John'd never hear the end of it.

Finally, he arrived at their front door and hastily unlocked it. He ran up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. By the end John was out of breath when he entered their living room. He went into the kitchen.

Three people were sat there, all but one looking unhappy, unhappiest of all Sherlock. The birthday boy.

"John!" Mycroft said in greeting.

"Hi. Sorry I'm late," John slid onto the empty chair next to Sherlock, absent-mindedly kissing him on the cheek as he did so. He was flushed from the cold outside and his running and too distracted to notice the raised eyebrows on everybody's faces. "Got caught up at work. Emergency. Child reacted to a medicine, I had to stabilise her." He looked around and misinterpreted their looks. "Anyway. Sorry. I'm here now. Happy birthday!" He turned to Sherlock and beamed at him.

* * *

They had a nice dinner. Mrs Hudson and Mycroft provided most of the conversation, often aided by John and seldom by Sherlock and when he talked then only because John or Mrs Hudson had made him. He was trying his best to sour all their moods but forgetting that everybody at the table knew him too well to not see how he was trying to get them to leave and stayed and were merry just to spite him.

* * *

Their guests were in the living room, drinking a post-meal coffee while John stayed behind to straighten up the kitchen a bit. Sherlock came in, but not to help, of course.

"What are you doing here? You can't leave me alone with _them_!" he accused John who rolled his eyes.

"They're your guests. Talk to them for a while longer and they'll leave." John turned back to the dishes.

"They're not my guests! I didn't invite them, I didn't want them here!" It was petulant Sherlock who said that.

"Well, look, you can't just have a birthday and not expect people to know. So buck up and be nice. Then you won't have to do it again for a whole year."

"I don't understand why we couldn't've just ignored it," Sherlock murmured.

"Because it's your birthday!"

"Fine! But we could've gone out and hidden."

"You think that would've hindered Mycroft?"

"I suppose not." John made a face that said 'told you so' and once more turned his attention back to the dishes. Next to him, Sherlock leaned against the counter with his arms crossed and a pout on his face with no intention of going back into the living room where they could hear Mrs Hudson's and Mycroft's soft voices. John sighed.

"Do you want your present then?" he asked. Sherlock perked up a bit, before again schooling his face into a petulant mask. He waved the notion away.

"It's a new Zeiss plan microscope lens. Thank you," he said. John gaped a little at him.

"How do you know that?" he asked. Sherlock snorted. Of course.

"I mentioned it four times over the last six weeks and send you an article about it, giving you ample time to order it for christmas or my birthday. As I haven't got it for christmas, my birthday it is."

"Yeah, yeah, I thought about it. But that thing costs 400 quid, I'm not giving you anything that expensive." Again Sherlock dismissed his words with a hand wave.

"You looked it up online. You've got much better at anonymous browsing, but you didn't clear your entire browser cache. It's not enough to delete the e-mail with the order confirmation, when I can just find a copy in your Google docs, John. The Zeiss it is." John sighed. Of course. And he had so tried to be sneaky. Next year, he thought, he would order things from his work computer or buy them in a shop. The thing about Sherlock was, he always made it sound as if it was John who spoilt the surprise for him.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," he grumbled. He turned to Sherlock and crossed his arms over his chest. "Go on then. You've already found it, haven't you? Is it any good?" But Sherlock shook his head.

"No. I tried all your usual hiding spots, but it wasn't anywhere. It helps, I suppose, that it is so small." Sherlock didn't sound the least bit sorry, he sounded more angry at John for hiding his present so well. John chuckled.

"Well in that case..."

"What? Give it to me!" Sherlock demanded. "It's my birthday, as you've so kindly reminded me."

"Nope. Gotta be patient." John grinned up at Sherlock. They stood close, he noticed. Their guests in the living room were still engrossed in conversation and not missing them terribly. They were effectively alone for a moment and Sherlock, despite what he said and how he acted, had dressed rather extra carefully this evening.

John took a step to the side to stand in front of Sherlock. Sherlock's demeanour changed, he straightened up and shot a short glance at the living room, making sure nobody was in the door to the kitchen and interrupting, before his eyes came to meet John's. John took another half step forwards and Sherlock had to shift his feet to make room for John's as the man hooked the index fingers of both hands in his belt hoops to pull himself closer. Their legs and hips touched. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat.

John raised his left hand, slowly upwards and Sherlock, by instinct, tilted his head to the side as John's came minutely closer. With Sherlock slouched against the counter they were almost of equal height and their lips were no more than two inches apart. Any moment now John would curl his palm around Sherlock's neck and pull his lips against his and Sherlock's eyelids became heavy in anticipation.

But John surprised him when his hand rose ever higher, above Sherlock's shoulder and instead of grabbing his head opened the cupboard he stood in front of. Dumb, Sherlock turned his head to see what he was doing. John grasped for something, a packet of camomile tea. He smirked at Sherlock and pulled the tea down. He opened the packet, holding it in the little space between their chests, and showed Sherlock its contents. It was his microscope lens. Sherlock gasped.

"Knew you wouldn't look there," John whispered and Sherlock could feel his breath against his skin. He was still dumbstruck. His eyes snapped up from the lens to John's. For a moment, they stopped at his lips and he could see them curl into a smug grin. He could feel John press the tea packet against his chest and stupidly closed his hand around it, not moving it away, clutching it against him. John stepped back and broke the spell. He smiled, still smugly.

"Happy birthday," he said. "Let's get back to your guests." He left Sherlock behind who needed a minute to compose himself. He shook himself out of his stupor and reminded himself that he finally had got the lens he had wanted and that he should feel content. Instead he felt disappointed and, strangely, proud of John for playing him so well. Captain Watson.

Sherlock needed another minute to cool down before he could face his brother once more.


	5. I had a nightmare

Okay, I tried something. It's a little different from the other chapters so far.

* * *

4 a.m.

It was hot. Stiflingly so. Suffocating. The blanket, it was too heavy. So very much too heavy, he had to get it off. It wasn't getting off of him, why wasn't it getting off of him, where were the edges, why wasn't he getting it off?

John kicked and flailed and thrashed about and at last he threw the damned duvet off the bed. His chest was heaving, sweat was running down his tense body. He was at home, he was in his bed, he was at home, at home, at home and safe. He was okay.

He pressed his eyes shut tightly and sobbed silently. He prayed he hadn't screamed.

John's breathing took too long to calm down, but when his pulse was back within a normal margin, he decided he needed to get up. The bed, no. He wouldn't be able to sleep any more tonight. He might as well get up. Have a tea.

He grabbed jeans and jumper and padded down the stairs in his pyjamas, barefooted. John turned on the light over the kitchen counter and started the kettle. Routine now. Fetch mug, tea bag, milk, kettle's boiling, pour the water, add a dash of milk, stir, let steep for three minutes, put back the milk.

Breathe.

He leaned against the counter and something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Car headlights, reflected in the window. Innocent.

That was Sherlock's room down the hall. It was very quiet in that part of the flat. Quiet and Sherlock didn't mix.

John thought. Sherlock was safe, of course he was, they were both safe. It was just a stupid nightmare, but one look at him wouldn't hurt, besides he was asleep and John could be quiet if he wanted and there was no chance he'd wake him up if he just took one short look, and oh look, he _was _sleeping, lying supine and still. Breathing evenly. John left the room he didn't notice walking into again, carefully shutting the door behind him.

Good for him. It was the middle of night. Yes, John would have liked some company, but it had been a selfish hope. Sherlock needed his sleep. John decided he needed a shower, he was drenched in sweat. He left the tea forgotten and took a shower.

Afterwards he fetched fresh pants and a t-shirt from the dryer in the kitchen. It was a good thing he'd been too lazy earlier and so there was no need to walk back upstairs again. He better check on Sherlock again, see if his shower had woken him and apologise if so.

Still asleep like a log.

John watched him from the door. Twenty to five. Too early for him to get up yet. He really needed his sleep, John had better let him catch it. He really must be quieter now. He really should leave the room now. Sherlock's extra sensory perception was better developed than in most humans. He would surely wake up if John kept on staring. Any moment now.

He kept on sleeping.

Odd.

Maybe there was something wrong with him? John walked over to the bed but everything seemed fine. He became aware of how cold it was in the room, especially now when he was still wet from the shower and so got into the bed and under the covers to warm up and the better to check on his flatmate. Who was still asleep.

John lay down on his back and stared at the ceiling. Morning was dawning in the city and filling the room with the first light of the day, tinting it in soft greens reflected from the walls. It was calm so he turned on his side and snuggled into Sherlock. His knees bumped into the other man's thighs and he didn't care and his arms snug around his torso and pressed down too hard and he didn't care and his head was buried into his shoulder and his wet hair was dampening his shirt and John tried, he _tried_, to be sorry for waking him.

"Sorry," his voice broke, he was so dangerously close to sobbing. Sherlock's hand was on his head, patting a little hard.

"You're wet," he said in a deep, deeper than usual, voice and sounded startled and mostly, confused with sleep.

"I'm sorry, sorry," John told him, muffled by his shoulder. Sherlock's arms came up to hold him in a firm embrace.

"Shush," he kissed into John's hair, "Everything's all right, it's all right." Soothing assurances. "You're okay." He rolled them both on their sides and took great care not to disentangle their limbs. He held John's head cradled in one hand, pressed against his shoulder, and his other hand just on the beginning of the curve of his arse, pushing their torsos together. His uppermost leg he swung over both John's and then there was the duvet and John was in a hot, comfortably so, little nest and Sherlock made him feel safe.

"I had a nightmare," John confided some minutes later when he had stopped shivering.

"Yes," was all Sherlock replied. He kissed the crown of his head again, rubbed his cheek against it and caressed the side of his face with his thumb.

"You can let go of me now," John offered.

"No," Sherlock said, not rude, and dragged John's leg between both his.

"'kay," John conceded in a small voice. He felt his weariness now, all of a sudden, and allowed sleep to lure him in again.

When he woke up almost three hours later, Sherlock was awake and still there with him, lying exactly as they did before, hand caressing his hair. That had to mean something.

* * *

Next up: The resolution of this 5+1 in UST.


	6. Can't wait

AN:

The last chapter. We resolve the tension. Warning: The f-word, I just didn't want to upgrade the rating for this.

* * *

John handed Sherlock the paper.

"Have you read about the theft of that painting?" he asked indicating an article on the page. Sherlock didn't even look up from his paper, letting John's hand hang in the air.

"Inside job. Insurance fraud. Dull," he drawled. John pursed his lips, impressed, and shrugged.

"How can you tell?" he asked flipping to world news.

"They contacted the insurance company before the police. People are so stupid," Sherlock said sounding insulted by people's inconsideration of his fine tastes. "It most probably has never left the building. The big museums store three fourths of their exhibits, most of which never see the light of day. I bet you would find the missing painting somewhere in their basement, probably under the sheet with the least dust on it." That made a lot of sense to John and it brought something to his mind.

"Maybe we should tell the insurance company then? I bet they pay much better than a private client." And then Sherlock thought about that, frowning, he even put away his paper.

"In general you are right, but I believe in this special case one of the conspirators is sometone with the insurance." He levelled a sharp gaze at John, looking for something there. "Why? Do you need money?"

"No, no," John said amused. Despite his tone of voice, Sherlock wasn't being condescending, he actually cared and it was nice to see every once in a while. "Just a thought. I think they would love to hire you. Those are some huge sums we're talking about, they'd certainly pay you a fraction of that." Sherlock shook his paper and put it up again, effectively ending the conversation.

"You still want to go on that cruise I see," he murmured not looking up again. John had to suppress a laugh. It was true, though. He liked ships, it was something about them.

They were having breakfast in their living room, each reading a paper and occasionally talking about what they read or exchanging the papers when they were done with it. Sherlock culled the crosswords and sports sections for John, John the science sections for him. It was, as so often with them, quite domestic.

"Right, I'm off then," John said standing up twenty or so minutes later. He was already dressed for the surgery whereas Sherlock was still in his pyjamas and dressing gown. John was looking at eight hours with colds and bored elderly people, while Sherlock was looking forward to eight hours spent on the sofa, thinking or napping, whichever was more pressing.

"Have fun," Sherlock said dryly and smiled a very false smile at John, not really mocking him, but nearly.

"Yeah, thanks, you too," said John, leaned down and kissed Sherlock good-bye before he grabbed his keys and wallet off the table. Then he stood ramrod straight when it hit him.

"Fuck," he said and turned around to face Sherlock who grinned, quite evilly. He lifted a brow.

"Something wrong?" he asked and had to bite his lip to stop from laughing at John's somewhat shocked face. John leaned against the table for support.

"That," he said and paused, "is not how this was supposed to happen."

"Whatever do you mean?" Sherlock asked but his eyes were glinting with mirth to which John replied with narrowed eyes. His gaze softened a little when he saw that Sherlock was decidedly not panicking, which had been John's greatest fear to be honest.

"We'll talk about this tonight, because I really have to run," he said in mock seriousness, even going as far as shaking a finger at him.

"Can't wait," Sherlock quipped. For all the lightness of the situation, John was unsure how to proceed from here. Sherlock, seeing that, engrossed himself into his paper once more, showing John there was nothing to worry about and that it was okay to go, because sometimes Sherlock did those things, making something easier on John. Still, he couldn't refrain himself for mocking him just a little more.

"Is that how you do that, then? If that's your idea of a romantic first kiss I no longer wonder why you so utterly fail at relationships."

"Oh, I'll show you failure," John said grimly and cupped Sherlock's face in his palm to pull it in for another, fierce, _real _kiss, one that he had actually planned, you know, and one where he could taste the honey on Sherlock's lips and his over-sweet coffee. One that he came away from just a little bit breathless.

Sherlock licked his lips, unconsciously searching for the last residue of John there.

"Dinner at Angelo's tonight?" he asked just to do something that was not grabbing John and making him late for work, again.

"Yeah," John nodded. He kissed Sherlock a third, last, time, a much shorter kiss this time, that nonetheless had Sherlock clinging to his lips when he leaned back after.

They never made it to Angelo's that night. And John phoned in sick at the surgery. There were more important things to do.

* * *

I had a little trouble with this chapter because I didn't know how I wanted to end the story. Originally, it was getting really smutty but I felt that wouldn't be in tune with the rest of the it. So I had the breakfast idea and then wrote that down.

Thank you all _so much_ for reading and reviewing and favouriting and following, it was a blast!


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